


in between the silences

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DH compliant, M/M, but of course without the epilogue, slightly AU-ish because spy!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Draco are sent to a safe house immediately after the battle of Hogwarts, where they're supposed to be spend three weeks together, much to their anger. Television serves as both therapy and a bonding opportunity, coffee and tea get drunk in large quantities, and they try to reconcile themselves with life after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in between the silences

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shameless version of an already done trope, fic, prompt, whatever you want to call it, and I'm not going to pretend like I wasn't heavily influenced by previous works that were written with similar plots. That's what you get when you get into a fandom five years too late, I guess.  
> 

"Three weeks?", Harry all but shouts at Professor McGonagall, and she gives him one of her best stares, complete with a perfect, well-practiced eyebrow lift.

They're in her old office, a place Harry's been in a thousand times before, but never so spent and tired. His whole body aches, and he's not in the mood to talk with anyone right now, let alone argue.

He's been on his way to the Gryffindor common room when she crossed his way, and commanded him to follow her. His feet obeyed before his brain agreed, and Hermione and Ron, of course, came as well. Harry had just wanted to get some sleep. And now he was being shipped off to cower in some rat hole.

His head aches tremendously, and his clothes are covered with dust and pieces of rubble from the battle.

In his hand, he clutches his newly-fixed wand tightly.

It's been six hours since he killed Voldemort.

"Yes, three weeks, twenty-one days, if you will, mister Potter. The Order thinks it's much too unsafe for you to just wander about the streets so soon after Voldemort's death. It's in our best intentions-"

"I'm an adult, I think I can decide for myself-"

"Do that, and you'll be signing your death certificate, mister Potter. Without their leader, the Death Eaters will be out of control, mad with grief. They'll start killing sprees, calling it 'vengeance', and you will remain their number one target. It's much smarter-"

"Listen to Professor McGonagall, Harry, please", Hermione says, and Harry can see tears in her eyes.

Beside her, Ron puts an arm around her waist, looking grim and determined.

"They're right, Harry. Let the Order bring this thing to an end."

"And you'll stay and help them, won't you, of course", Harry spits out. "While I sit in some safe house far away, and relax with a cup of tea, right, like some-"

"No one could ever think you're a coward, Harry", Hermione interrupts him firmly. "You've survived so far, please, just be reasonable. It's just for three weeks. Then it'll all be over."

"You don't get it-"

"Would you all _please_ sit down, and be quiet for a moment", Professor McGonagall says wearily, and the three of them cautiously lower themselves in the uncomfortable chairs by her desk.

"Mister Potter, you'll find you're not the only person that's going to hiding for this short period of time", Professor McGonagall continues after a moment, and Harry tries not to snort with contempt at the word 'hiding'.

"Mister Shacklebolt, our newest Prime Minister himself, is going to sit this one out, too. It's for the good of the whole wizarding community, not to lose a man as capable as him. He, as well, was very much opposed to the idea, but I believe his colleagues convinced him otherwise."

"Oh, am I going where Shacklebolt is?", Harry asks, feeling a little bit better about the situation, but Professor McGonagall says sharply: "Of course not."

"They don't want to be putting all their eggs in one basket", Ron says wisely.

"No, you'll be rooming with someone a bit closer to your age", Professor McGonagall says, giving Ron a look. "One of your former classmates, in fact. He's on his way right now, actually. Will be here any moment, I should think."

There's a knock on the door, and Bill Weasley walks in somberly, pushing none other than Draco Malfoy in front of him.

Harry is pretty sure Ron looks like he's about to explode.

"I'm perfectly able to walk by myself, thank you", Draco snarls back at Bill, before turning to the rest of the room. He looks immaculate, in tight black trousers and equally black shirt, his tousled blond hair just adding to the whole impression. The only sign he's just survived the battle for Hogwarts is a dark purple bruise blooming under his left eye, and Harry wants to congratulate whoever planted it there.

"Professor McGonagall", Malfoy says with cold courtesy, pretending he doesn't notice Harry, Ron and Hermione, sitting right there in front of him, and it just makes Harry want to hit him, really, really hard.

The last time they saw each other was in front of the Room of Requirement, when Harry didn't get as much as a 'thank you' for saving the little git's life, and now he strides into the office like he owns it, chin high, nose in the clouds... Harry grits his teeth loudly.

Hermione's eyes flicker wildly between Harry and Malfoy, before turning to give Professor McGonagall a horrified look.

"Professor, you don't really mean-", she starts.

"Why, yes, I do", Professor McGonagall says brusquely. "Mister Malfoy, please greet your roommate for the next three weeks. Mister Potter, do the same. I expect the minimum common courtesy from the both of you."

"No", Harry says without thinking. Malfoy's lower lip curls with contempt, and for a moment, he vividly reminds Harry of Severus Snape. "Professor, anyone - anyone but him -"

"Mister Potter, I expect you'll behave and not bring disgrace to the House of Gryffindor", Professor McGonagall says, as if she thinks she still has some influence over him as his former Head of House.

Surprisingly enough, it's somewhat true, and Harry straightens in his chair just a bit.

"What's Malfoy got to be in hiding for? Why is he so important?", Ron demands, voicing some of Harry's thoughts, and Professor McGonagall looks unbelievably composed as she turns to him.

"Mister Malfoy has done some remarkable undercover work for the Order this past year, but, unfortunately, has angered a lot of people in the way. It's important he goes into a safe house, if he wants to survive."

"What now, _Malfoy's_ been a spy? For _the Order_?", Ron says loudly.

"One of the best", Professor McGonagall returns simply, looking up at Malfoy, but he doesn't meet her eyes, instead staring firmly at the floor.

"Mister Malfoy has passed on some priceless information to us during the war, and, lest we not forget, saved some of your lives. More than once, if I might add."

Harry glances at Malfoy, who looks as if he wants the earth to open up and swallow him right this instant.

"I thought long and hard about pairing the two of you up, and I think it's best you don't question my judgment", Professor McGonagall says after a moment, in a tone that suggests there'll be no more discussion on this subject.

"You cannot be serious", Malfoy says quietly, and she just looks at him blankly.

"But I am, mister Malfoy, as you'll find, mostly always. I trust he wasn't too much of a difficulty, mister Weasley?"

Bill's polite smile gives out nothing, but his eyes flicker slightly.

"Not at all, Professor."

Harry wonders whether anyone but Dumbledore ever called Professor McGonagall anything other than  'Professor McGonagall'.

"You won't need your things, the place you'll be at is already equipped with all you could possibly need. You are allowed to take your wands, but no magic is allowed, understood? They'll know how to track it down. Only the usual protection and scanning spells. Are you listening, mister Potter?"

"Yes", Harry says hoarsely, forcing himself to look up.

"All is settled, then", she says, and writes something out on a piece of paper, which she hands him rather formally.

"Your address, mister Potter. I trust you to destroy the information as soon as you've used it. You know how to Apparate, am I right?"

Harry nods wordlessly, getting to his feet. Hermione jumps up as well, and hugs him too tightly, as she always did, her thin arms almost bone-crushing.

"Just be nice, Harry", she whispers in his ear, and then she's gone, turning to stand next to Ron, and nudging him with her shoulder. Ron looks slightly uncomfortable, with everyone's eyes now on him.

He hits Harry awkwardly on the arm, and says quietly: "You just... stay safe, mate."

"Will do", Harry says, smiling despite himself, and pulls him into a short, stiff hug.

He can see Hermione looking tearful again, yet oddly proud as well.

_Well, that's the goodbyes, then._

He turns to Malfoy, who has been watching the scene with a look of dark amusement on his face. Malfoy meets his eyes, setting his jaw in a way that looks almost like a dare. Harry wants to hit him _so bad_.

"Take my hand", he grits out, and Malfoy responds with a tense, angry: " _What?_ "

"Take. My. Bloody. Hand", Harry repeats, felling his blood boiling, and Malfoy grabs his hand, managing to turn even that simple act into something spiteful.

They Disapparate.

******

They find themselves in a large space, a combination of a living room and a kitchen, the living area clearly marked with a couch and an old leather chair, turned slightly towards each other and facing a small TV  set in one corner, with a small coffee table in between, and the kitchen clearly separated from everything else by a short counter.

It looks like no one's lived in it for years, the only smell being the one of dust.

Malfoy lets go of Harry and immediately steps away, looking around him suspiciously.

"Well", says Harry, already irritated with the way Malfoy apparently didn't even want to touch him in fear of some contamination. "I guess this is it."

Malfoy mutters something, peering through one smudgy window pane, clearly not interested in the whole talking thing. Harry looks at him for a moment.

"So, you were a spy all this time", he says suddenly, with the revelation still sitting heavily in his mind, and Malfoy turns to stare at him, his eyes somewhat wild.

"Yes, I was", he says after a moment, his voice tight. "Have anything to say about that, do you now, Potter?"

"I have a lot to say", Harry says, and Malfoy rolls his eyes.

"Of course you do."

"When did you first-"

"A week after Dumbledore's funeral", Malfoy says. "I met with Professor McGonagall, and it took her fairly little to start trusting me. I was the inside informer from Malfoy Manor."

Harry takes a moment to process that.

"And about what she said, you saving our lives more than a few times... "

"I just informed the Order whenever the Death Eaters thought they located you, so they could prevent them from getting you", Malfoy says, sounding snappish. "Nothing over the top, believe me. Just gave away the right informations at the right times."

The nasty tone of his voice drills through Harry's head, mixing with the headache, but he pushes on, determined to set at least some things straight. He sets his jaw stubbornly.

"Oh. Well, uh, I think I should thank y-"

"Please, Potter, don't flatter yourself", Malfoy spits out. "I didn't do it for you, or your little friends. I did it because I wanted to save my sorry little soul. You see, I don't have it in me to sit out the rest of my life in Azkaban, like my father probably will. I needed a pardon."

"Well, your father deserves it in any case", Harry snaps back. There is something comfortingly familiar in this, the two of them, shooting the same insults at each other like they did when they were twelve.

Malfoy's mouth twists.

"Whether he does deserve it or not, it's none of your bloody business, is it, Potter", he says sharply. "Don't talk about my father as if you know him."

"Yeah, excuse your Daddy all you want", Harry snarls, feeling angrier by the second, by Malfoy's stupid face, and Malfoy's stupid superior tone, and the way Malfoy is standing, stiff in posture and obviously ready for a fight. "It won't change the fact he'll probably rot in a cell until the day he dies- "

Malfoy punches him in the face in one calculated, hard blow. Harry punches back. Soon, they are both rolling around the floor, landing punches where they can, intent on bringing the other as much pain as possible. Finally, finally, _finally_ , is all Harry can think, directing all of his hurt and anger at Malfoy's weasel face. He knows he's just using this fight as an outlet, the tiny Hermione voice nags him in his head, but he finds it hard to care, especially now, as he kicks Malfoy in the ribs and watches his face scrunch up in pain. A part of him wonders whether Malfoy using this fight as a vent as well, as he receives a heavy blow in the stomach.

It feels good to just be eighteen, to punch a boy just because he annoys you so much, to struggle and wrestle and scramble on the floor just like a kid, just like you there isn't a war going on all around, just like no one you know died; it just feels good. They kick at each other until they're both breathless and too tired to even lift their fists, instead falling down and laying next to each other on the warm kitchen floor. Harry can hear Malfoy's short, raggedy breaths, and see his own chest rising unevenly, and he stares at the ceiling, feeling one knot of many finally unraveling in his stomach.

"Fuck, that felt good", he says, and Malfoy snorts next to him.

"Bloody Potter", he breathes out. "Always taking out the tension the painful way."

"Have you never wrestled anyone before?", Harry asks, and gets another snort in response.

"Of course _not_. But it did feel good, smacking you in the nose... I'm glad we got this out of the way so soon. Maybe we'll actually be able to live with each other if let the tension out every now and again."

"Yeah", Harry agrees.

He feels very relaxed all of a sudden, strangely calm after he got to punch Malfoy a little bit; a small part of him wonders what would've happened if they did something like this a long time ago, released their anger and tension at each other when they were thirteen? Would it be the same? Or would've they found peace after that, like most boys do?

"I'm sorry", he says after a minute. "About what I said, about your father. It was completely uncalled for, and cruel, and I-"

Malfoy waves one dismissive hand.

"It's alright. I mean, it's not alright. But I know the way you Gryffindors get, hot blood, and all. Don't beat yourself too much about it, Potter."

Harry wonders how much of this is just the fight adrenaline talking. He decides not to ask.

A thought wiggles in his mind.

"So, all that, in the Room of Requirement...", he says, and Malfoy flinches. "Were you trying to save the diadem for us, as well?"

"Yes", Malfoy replies quietly. "I realized it was probably something important. Except I ended up with Crabbe and Goyle, and both of them had their egos unreasonably engorged during the time they spent at Hogwarts without me, the fucking idiots... Crabbe, especially, what _was_ he thinking?"

His tone of voice has turned from annoyed to wistful, and he sighs.

Harry tries to remember Malfoy's face when he realized his friend died, frighteningly pale and still with shock. They lie in silence for a while, listening to the squeeking of pipes.

Then Malfoy stretches slowly, arching his body upwards, as elegant as a cat, before he groans suddenly, reaching with one hesitant hand to his ribs.

"I think you've seriously damaged something there, Potter", he says with a weak smile, and Harry brushes his fingertips over the hurt ribs and mutters a few words. There is a satisfying crack as bone and flesh repair themselves, and Malfoy shivers with his whole body before looking up at him.

"Thank you", he says quietly. "Never was good with healing charms, myself. Took too much patience."

Harry nods. It took him a long while to learn, too, but being all alone at seventeen, hunting down Horcruxes, had left him little choice.

"It's getting dark", he says, and Malfoy glances towards the window at the sunset, and Harry notes how the blood red of late afternoon sun oddly suits his face, ghosting over his pale lips and flushing them with colour.

"We should probably-", Malfoy starts, and Harry just nods and helps him to his feet. They stand with their backs to each other, their shoulder blades almost touching, and cast the usual tracing spells, scanning their surroundings for any sign of magic.

"Nothing", Malfoy breathes out, and a grin suddenly spreads across his face, brilliant and full of relief, and it's a look Harry has never seen on him before.

"Alright", Malfoy continues, sounding determined. "Let's check this place out."

"I think we're in some Muggle area", he says, peering through the window again and Harry leans to look, as well. The flat is apparently located in some dirty, deserted alleyway, the only thing in it a pair of enormous rubbish bins.

Harry turns to look at Malfoy, noting his nose scrunching in disdain.

 "Not good enough for your taste, Malfoy?", he asks, unable to contain himself, and Malfoy shoots him a look.

"Don't start at it again, please, I'm not in the mood", he says coldly, and walks off to check the two doors leading out of the large room.

"This one's the bathroom", he calls out, and occupies himself with flicking the light on and off for a few minutes, looking fascinated. Harry has forgotten he's never had to use electricity before.

 He bites his lip, unwillingly interested in this new, inexperienced side of Malfoy.

"That means the other one must be the bedroom", he offers, and watches as Malfoy turns and goes into the second room, oddly cheerful.

There is a silence for a moment - blessed, blessed silence - before he returns, wide eyed.

"There's only one bed there!", Malfoy says, sounding slightly hysterical, and Harry doesn't say anything, watching him bounce around the room. "What were they - how are we going to -"

"We can take turns", Harry says simply, and Malfoy looks at him as if he's mad.

"Look, tonight you can have the bed. I'll take the couch. It's really alright", Harry continues, feeling as if he's not coming across clear. His head pulsates, in big, painfully throbbing beats.

"Really?", Malfoy echoes, and Harry just nods, too tired for conversation, too tired for everything.

Malfoy hesitates for a moment  before muttering: "Well. Thank you, Potter."

"Yeah, alright", Harry says, closing his eyes for a moment. He lowers himself on the couch. "I just - I'm going to try and sleep right now. So be quiet."

"Got it", Malfoy says quietly, and disappears behind the bedroom door again.

Harry lets himself sleep.

******

He wakes up early the next morning, and listens to the faint sounds of traffic while he counts the cracks on the living room ceiling. His neck hurts and his feet are cold, but he feels better than he's felt in ages, the headache gone and his body finally relaxed. He stares around the room for a few moments, before spotting a lead bar, installed horizontally in the bathroom doorway.

He gets up to inspect it, and after testing his weight on it carefully, he jumps up easily, and starts doing chin-ups, choosing rather to sweat than to think.

Various faces swirl around his head, Fred and Lupin and Tonks and Sirius, and he struggles to push the thoughts of them away. He doesn't want to think about anything right now.

He's just getting to thirty when he hears the door open.

"Uh, what are you doing?", comes Malfoy's hesitant voice from behind him.

"Working out", Harry spits out, and groans as he pushes himself back up again.

"Oh", is all Malfoy says, and his voice sounds a little bit off. Harry drops down to the floor, and turns to look at him, brushing the sweat out of his eyes.

"Do  you need something?", he asks, and Malfoy just stares at him for a moment.

"No, I, uh, just wanted to make some coffee", he says finally, and looks away. "Want any?"

"Never liked it", Harry grunts as he jumps up and grabs the bar again. "More of a tea man, myself."

"Right, okay", says Malfoy quietly, his voice faint.

Harry does twenty more push-ups before giving up and sliding down on the floor. He is already soaked with sweat, and every muscle in his body aches. He shrugs out of his old t-shirt clumsily, and runs a hand over his damp forehead. Malfoy looks at him blankly from behind the counter.

"Work out a lot, do you?", he asks as he takes out a coffee cup from a cabinet.

"Actually, not at all", Harry answers, leaning on the countertop with his elbows. "Never had the time - or will - for it. But you know, we'll spend a lot of time here, I thought I'd best occupy myself with something."

Malfoy nods absently, picking up one of those three-in-one quick coffee mixtures from the bowl filled with various kitchen thingamabobs, complete with little bags of sugar, ketchup, and, inexplicably, marbles. He pulls at the designed cutting area ineffectually for a few moments, frowning.

"Don't they - fucking - even know how to cut these properly in one of their factories?", he says with frustration, before lifting the bag to his mouth and biting the cap off angrily, his white teeth showing just a bit. Harry watches the thin paper cap between his lips intently for a moment before he realizes what he's doing.

It's hard for him to reconcile with the fact Malfoy's been working for his side, Draco Malfoy with his horrible, scowling, pointy face and cold eyes, Draco Malfoy who hated Muggles and Mudbloods, Draco Malfoy who took the Dark Mark and tried to murder Dumbledore.

Except, right now, Malfoy doesn't look at all like his old self, the stuck up, prejudiced, devious kid Harry could never stand.

He just looks like a tired young man, with dim eyes and premature worry lines around his mouth.

"How do you even know what that is?", Harry asks, nodding towards the mixture powder, and Malfoy shrugs.

"I inspected the kitchen a little bit while you were sleeping. Didn't take me long to figure this out, I mean, come on, Potter, there's instructions written out on the back of the bag."

He pours the boiling water serenely in his cup, the cap still between his lips. Almost as an afterthought, he takes it out and disposes of it quickly, turning to stir his coffee.

He leans in to inhale the bitter-sweet scent, rising up in the thin white steam.

The bags under his eyes are enormous and dark.

"Did you sleep at all?", Harry asks.

"No. I couldn't", Malfoy answers simply.

Harry watches his fingers tighten around the mug. He doesn't say anything further.

"For a Muggle invention, this is delicious", Malfoy says, starting to drink the coffee with obvious delight. He hums happily, closing his eyes, and Harry has to look away from the look of absolute pleasure on his face.

"I have an almost perverse love for coffee", Malfoy confesses, after a few more moments of small sips and obscene noises.

"Uh-huh", says Harry, and tries to perish the groans from his mind.

"Nothing better than your first morning coffee", Malfoy continues, with great satisfaction, but to Harry it looks forced and cracked, his smile too tight.

Malfoy's bruise looks vicious in the morning light, almost black at the edges. Harry looks at it for a long moment before reaching out without thinking, and Malfoy instantly moves his head away, craning his neck.

"Let's not get too touchy-feely so soon, Potter", he says with the same, stiff smile, his eyes sharp.

"Who did that?", Harry asks, and Malfoy almost sneers.

"I don't see why that's any of your business", he replies brusquely, and Harry bites his lip.

"I was just curious, that's all", he mutters, looking down.

"Don't worry about it, Potter", Malfoy says, rolling his eyes. "Just let me keep a few facts for myself here and there, alright?"

He pauses for a moment.

"You should really put something on, you'll catch a cold", he adds quickly, and disappears in the bathroom, carrying his coffee with him.

 _You're not my real mom_ , Harry wants to shout after him, except the thought makes him sad. His mind, unbidden, takes him to the night in the Forbidden Forest.

He does fifty push-ups before he manages to stop thinking about it.

******

"I think", Harry starts carefully, "we should clean this place up."

"Yeah", says Malfoy after a moment. "Good luck with that."

He returns his attention to the crossword he's been solving for the last hour.

It's their fourth day in the flat together, and they've spent most of their time avoiding each other and muttering awkward 'sorry's whenever they bumped into each other on their way to the bathroom. They barely spoke, and spent their days staring at the ceiling, or the walls, the silence weighing down on them heavily. Harry can only guess Malfoy's mind is still lost somewhere in the past few months, just as his is.

When he closes his eyes, he can still see Colin Creevey's face, pale and unblinking, hear Hermione's screams, feel himself shaking all over again, his face in the damp forest ground, as Voldemort tortured him, again and again and again, and he almost bit off his lip in the effort not to scream.

They both feign nonchalance and brightness, but sometimes, when Harry walks into the room, he can see Malfoy's eyes, glazed over and open wide, a cold, steel shade of grey, before the other boy sets his face again to a mask he seems to have perfected, cool and unmoved.

Harry is as mush sick of it as he is sick of the dust and grime covering every part of the flat.

He decides just to stare at Malfoy, hoping that the pure force of it would make him do something. When nothing happens after a few seconds, he sighs.

"Drama won't help you", Malfoy says distantly. "Name of Britain's Muggle Prime Minister."

"Tony Blair", Harry says automatically, before he realizes he shouldn't be helping him out. "Wait, no."

"Thank youuu", Malfoy sing-songs, and scribbles it in quickly.

"You cheater", Harry says, and Malfoy snickers behind his newspaper.

"No, but really", Harry tries again, "we should definitely clean this place up a bit. Last night I thought I was going to choke on the dust bunnies from under the couch."

"I see no problem there", Malfoy replies. "I, myself, have taken to naming them. Have you meet Angela? How about Ralf?"

"Malfoy-"

"All right! All right! If you're just going to bully me until we do it, then, by all means, I agree", Malfoy says, waving his hands about with annoyance.

"Good", Harry says. For one horrifying moment, he reminds himself of Hermione. He shakes the thought off quickly.

"So", says Malfoy, unfurling himself from the couch elegantly, in one liquid movement. "Where do we start?"

******

Half an hour later, Malfoy is scrubbing the floor vigorously, approaching the matter with a sudden burst of disturbing enthusiasm, and Harry is cleaning all the flat surfaces, right now focused on the smudgy living room windows.

He turns around to check Malfoy's progress, and blushes furiously as he sees the way Malfoy's back is curved, the blond boy spread on all fours, his face scrunched up in concentration. Parts of his shirt are wet from his keen splashing around, and clinging to his body tightly.

"Fuck", Malfoy breathes out, meeting his eyes, and sits up, leaning back to rest on his heels.

"I've only covered, like, one quarter of this floor. And you've finished all the tables and two windows already, what are you, an expert in washing and scrubbing? Where did you get all this supreme knowledge?"

It's meant to be a joke, but Harry can't stop himself, provoked by Malfoy's light, careless tone.

"It's got to be those eleven years I spent living in my cousin's cupboard, cleaning their kitchen floor every day, if they were kind enough to let me", he snaps. "Usually, I was in charge of the toilet washing. Sometimes with my own toothbrush."

There is a long silence, and he feels ashamed for blurting it all out, as Malfoy watches him with wide eyes. They look almost silver in the pale blue night light.

"I, uhm-", he starts, trying to talk his way out of it, but Malfoy shakes his head firmly.

"Not, it's... I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault", Harry says, taken aback, and Malfoy bites his lip.

He looks strangely unsure of himself.

"No, I'm sorry for all the times I... treated you _unfairly_ , if I can put it that way, in school. Especially if your own family treated you that way. I thought about apologizing for a long time. I... was a little shit."

"You kind of were", Harry agrees. "But you didn't know, did you."

"That's no excuse", Malfoy says sharply. "That's not a valid excuse in any way. I was a horrible, privileged little shit, and I passed all boundaries of rudeness to the point of fucking despicability, and I would've probably stayed that way, if not for the war. And I'm not expecting you to forgive me any time soon, if at all. But I can hope, can't I?"

Harry's voice is stuck somewhere halfway in his throat.

"Yeah, you can hope", he finally says, and Malfoy's eyes are impossibly bright.

"Okay", he says quietly, and continues scrubbing the floor. Harry takes a deep breath, and starts on his third window.

******

It's the middle of the night when they finish, leaving the flat, well, not entirely clean, but definitely not as dirty as before. Harry counts that as success.

Malfoy busies himself making tea, chatting cheerfully all the way through it.

Harry thinks he likes it because it means he can mess about with the kettle, something apparently very new to his aristocratic way of living. He doesn't mind, as long as it means he gets someone else to make the tea for him. After a few minutes, Malfoy presses a hot cup in his hands, and then moves to sit in the chair, inhaling the herbal scent shyly. They sit in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts.

"This is horrible tea", Harry says suddenly, and Malfoy shrugs.

"I know. I never made tea for myself, before. For anyone, really."

"Yeah, I... I guessed as much", Harry says, and Malfoy actually laughs, a short huff, and Harry feels himself unwind a little, sinking a little lower in the couch cushions.

He watches Malfoy take small, hesitant sips, scrunching his nose.

"Do you even like tea?", he asks after a moment, and Malfoy shakes his head.

"No, but I, uh, thought it was time to try it again", he says.

Harry looks at the cup in his own hands, remembering how Draco is very decidedly just a coffee lover, and he realizes it's a peace offering.

He takes a big drink, and Malfoy smiles to himself.

They finish the horrible tea.

"So", says Malfoy brightly, looking around, "This is really a typical Muggle flat, isn't it? Interesting."

Harry hums noncommittally, thinking about the way Malfoy looks entirely relaxed, surrounded by Muggle technology. He supposes the war changed a few things for the better, if that was at all possible.

"What's this?", Malfoy asks, directing his suspicious eyes at the television set.

"It's, uh, a TV", Harry says, and Malfoy furrows his brow.

"A what?", he snaps, staring at it warily, and Harry sighs.

"It's a Muggle contraption", he explains. "It plays stuff for you, sort of like a gramophone or radio, except it's visual."

"Oh, I've heard about it", Malfoy says with great importance. "The mo-vies. Theatre plays on a tiny little screen. How does it work?"

Harry pushes the power button, and the screen brightens slowly, the cracking noise of old speakers filling the room. A matter-of-fact voice pushes through the cracks, announcing the weather.

Malfoy jumps back, startled, his eyes wide, and Harry has to press back the urge to laugh. A female figure appears on the screen, then, a news presenter with heavy red lipstick and a serious face.

"And it'll be a hot sunny day tomorrow in Brighton, complete with a boiling thirty degrees Celsius-"

"Magic", whispers Malfoy.

"No. Not magic."

"Then how do they do it? How does the woman-"

"I don't know. Has something to do with radio waves, I imagine."

Malfoy slowly settles himself in the chair in front of the TV, eyes focused on the presenter.

"Whom is she addressing?", he asks.

"Well, you", says Harry, and when Malfoy's face turns completely white with shock, he presses a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.

"I mean, you as the audience. She's talking to whoever might be watching."

"Lot of people watch the television, do they?", Malfoy asks, his face suddenly determined, like he's solving a great puzzle.

"Lots. All Muggles do. Well, most. I think I'm gonna go to bed. Here's the, uh, remote. You might not be interested into listening the Muggle news, I reckon."

"Remote?", Malfoy asks faintly, and Harry just pushes it into his hand.

"It's almost like a wand. You point and click, see? Swish and flick."

To demonstrate, he changes the channel to a documentary about African wildlife, and runs out of the room before he gets asked any more questions.

******

When Harry wakes up the next day, it's already early afternoon and he stares through the window in disbelief for a minute, watching the bright sun. There is a low, but constant noise coming from the living room, and Harry stumbles through the flat clumsily, rubbing his blurry eyes, only to see Malfoy sprawled across the leather chair, the table in front of him filled with various, partially full coffee mugs.

"Potter", he exclaims as soon as he spots him. "This is amazing - this is one of the most wonderful things I've seen in my entire life - did you know we have 50 channels on this? Fifty channels in a tiny little box, and they change the things they show all the time!"

"Did you sleep in that chair?", Harry asks, putting the kettle on.

Malfoy snorts.

"I didn't sleep _at all_. Last night, after you went to bed, I associated myself with all the brilliant possibilities of the re-mote. Look, look at this!"

He turns the volume down, and the chubby, red cheeked woman from the talk show he's been watching continues talking, gesturing lavishly, except no sound comes from her mouth at all.

"A function with which you can mute out the annoying people", Malfoy whispers with relish.

"Wow", says Harry dryly. "Fascinating."

Malfoy turns the remote in his direction, and continues pressing the volume button, a look of absolute concentration on his face.

"Gotta disappoint you there, Malfoy", Harry says lightly, staring down in the remote's red eye. "It doesn't work on real people, as much as we'd all wish sometimes."

Malfoy huffs impatiently, and sinks lower in his chair with tangible glee.

"Did you know how many wondrous things you can see on the television? I saw a cooking show, and a comedy show, and I watched the news, and a do-cu-men-ta-ry about the Loch Ness monster - very interesting stuff, Potter, the Muggles are _so_ close to discovering her for real - and I'll have you know I watched a Muggle film last night, as well. They show so many films at night. And, _and_ ", his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, " _and_ _the dirty ones_."

Harry is not having this discussion.

He already feels a blush creeping up his neck, and he strides quickly to the kettle. When in doubt, tea. It makes him so awfully British, but then again, he is.

"Did you know", Malfoy continues cheerfully, "they make _those_ kinds of movies? The Muggles."

Harry heaves one heavy, long-suffering sigh, and splays his hands over the counter to steady himself.

"Yes, I did."

"Don't you find it interesting? I think they are _fascinating_."

The blush has definitely reached his face by now, and Harry feels the heat rushing from his cheeks.

"Oh my God, Malfoy, can we just, not talk about it? For fuck's sake."

"Potter, are you blushing? Should've known you'd be a rosy cheeked maiden, you", Malfoy says playfully, a big grin on his face.

Harry feels suddenly angry, mostly because he can't deny either of those things, his face now a proper, blaring red, and the matter of his virginity, well...

"And I suppose you're a proper gigolo, or what not, and slept with all of Hogwarts, didn't you? When you weren't busy plotting to kill Dumbledore, that is", he snaps.

Malfoy's face hardens instantly, and Harry regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips.

"Not all of Hogwarts. Some of it, yes", Malfoy says slowly, and scrambles upwards from the chair. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm in need of a shower."

He slams the door of the bathroom behind him, and Harry feels horrible.

The kettle boils.

******

The afternoon is long, and cloudy, and moody beyond belief.

Malfoy takes his time in the shower, and Harry takes his time sipping the too hot, bitter tea, until it cools and turns even more disgusting. When Malfoy finally emerges from the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a white towel and spreading the sweet scent of vanilla shampoo, Harry almost knocks over his cup, standing up quickly.

"Look-", he starts, and Malfoy just sweeps past him, his chin raised high.

"I'm sorry", Harry blurts out after him, and only that stops Malfoy from disappearing in the bedroom. He freezes on the doorstep, the line of his back rigid, and Harry looks at the tense muscles in his shoulders, and waits.

When Malfoy doesn't say anything, just keeps standing there, Harry takes a deep breath and continues:

"I was stupid, and rash, and probably all the things you hate about me. And I'm sorry. I ought to think before I talk, sometimes."

Malfoy inclines his head to one side elegantly, still staring at the dark, chipped wood frame, and Harry feels relieved, seeing him visibly relax.

"Yes, you ought to", Malfoy says, turning around, and leaning on the door, crossing his arms, looking annoyingly victorious.

"You did a lot of good, after", Harry says, because he feels he should say something, anything, and Malfoy laughs bitterly, looking away, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, drawing Harry's eyes to his long pale throat for a moment.

"And lost everyone who mattered to me in the process", Malfoy says suddenly, meeting Harry's eyes. Harry has to look away, the unexpected somberness affecting him.

He struggles for a moment, wondering what to do next, and Malfoy just turns and walks out, leaving him alone.

He thinks about Malfoy spying for the Order after Dumbledore's death, spying on his friends, turning them in, turning against his family and his friends, and he grips the tea cup tighter. He doesn't know if he could ever do it, turn against Ron or Hermione and all of his old housemates, alienate everything he's ever known, and he feels a surge of feelings for the strange boy in the next room.

He realizes suddenly that he doesn't know Malfoy that well at all.

He wants to, though.

The realization hits him unexpectedly, and he argues with himself whether to come after Malfoy and try to talk to him, or something, but the quiet, hesitant creaking of the bedroom door snaps him out of it.

Malfoy peers into the room with care before stepping inside gracefully, and folding himself back into the chair. He turns to look at Harry, his expression almost a challenge.

"I just wanted to watch some _television_ ", he says, pronouncing every syllable of the word as if he's been practicing, and Harry bites back a smile, dropping on the couch to join him.

Malfoy points the remote control and turns on the tv with great flourish, surreptitiously glancing at Harry, looking like he's expecting a compliment, and Harry relaxes into the old cushions, letting Malfoy show him his 'most preferred channels'.

******

It's one in the morning, and they've somehow gone from tea to some whiskey Harry found in one of the cabinets, whiskey neither of them particularly knows how to drink, but get drunk off just as well.

The film has ended, and the commercials blare aggressively at them, lights flashing quickly on and off, and Malfoy yawns, turning the volume down.

Harry stretches slowly, feeling the world spinning around his head in a strangely pleasant way.

This whole situation turned to look much nicer after a few glasses of alcohol. The whiskey made everything be sort of alright, again. He vaguely wonders if he should just be drunk through the entirety of the twenty-one days.

"Oh, look", Malfoy suddenly says, nudging his side with a foot. "Another movie's starting."

Harry doesn't bother to look up, until Malfoy hisses and says with hushed satisfaction: "Oh, it's one of the _dirty ones_."

Harry's head snaps up, and he regards the screen with horror, as a burly, moustached man fondles a young woman's breast with a dim look on his face.

They watch the scene in silence for a few moments, Harry with plain discomfort, and Malfoy with faint interest.

"He doesn't look like he's enjoying it... at all", Harry says quietly.

"Well, I know I wouldn't", Malfoy snorts, and Harry turns to look at him.

"Uh... what?", he says, and Malfoy's lips twist into something akin to a smile.

"Potter, didn't you...? Oh, I guess you really are as oblivious as they say. I am, as people put it, batting for the other team."

Harry looks at him blankly for a moment before realizing what he's trying to say.

Oh. _Oh._

"Well, as long as it's not Chudley's Cannons", he finally manages. "All other teams are fine by me."

The smile is small and shy, but definitely there, and Harry is glad he's done at least this thing right. They direct their attention back to the screen, where the man is now bending the woman over the table, his expression one of intense concentration, and the woman is panting in a way that makes it hard to tell whether she's feeling pain or pleasure.

"This is really horrible", Harry says at some length.

"It is", Malfoy agrees.

Harry knows this isn't what sex is like. It isn't. It shouldn't be. But he doesn't actually _know_ , does he. He never... did.

"Real sex shouldn't be like this", Malfoy says, echoing his thoughts. Harry licks his lips, grateful they agree on this, at least.

He feels curious.

"So, this might be out of the blue, but have you... ever..."

He's never discussed this with anyone, not even Ron, especially because Ron was always all about Hermione, even when he was acting he wasn't, and it would've felt weird, talking about her in that way. And now, he's going to talk about _sex_ , with _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people.

"No", says Malfoy, suddenly rueful. "No, I never went through with the whole... _shebang_ , if you will."

It sounds ridiculous, 'shebang' coming from Malfoy's small, thin-lipped mouth, and Harry is reminded Malfoy is just another eighteen year old boy, insecure just as much as him.

"But I did get very close, and often", Malfoy continues, his mouth tugging upwards.

"Who...?", starts Harry, but feels too embarrassed to finish the sentence.

"Zabini", says Malfoy easily. "And Pansy, before him. Before I worked out she really wasn't my type."

"Oh", is all Harry says.

"And you, Potter? Come on, you know how this goes. I'll show you mine, and you show me yours."

Malfoy grins wickedly, and Harry feels all too naive for this conversation.

"I didn't... much of anything. Or anyone. Had too much on my mind."

"Ah, yes, what with your 'saving of the world' or what not", Malfoy says, flicking his hand dismissively.

Harry likes it, the way he doesn't patronize him, or acts like he's some god, walking on Earth. He's just... treating him as Potter, the same annoying git he's hated for seven years.

And then it's the whiskey talking. The fucking whiskey.

"Do you hate me?", he says, and doesn't mean for his voice to waver that much.

Malfoy gives him a sharp look.

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter, of course not. I did, for a while", he says, his voice turning soft, "or at least thought I did, then. Being twelve and having a nemesis was something terribly exciting, you see."

"I know", Harry agrees.

"But after everything that's happened since then, one of the main things being both of us growing up and maturing a bit, I think I got over it."

"I'm glad", Harry says quietly.

"Yeah", Malfoy returns. "Me, too."

"So, let's take a bet", he continues blurrily, pointing at the screen. "Will the disturbingly hairy man ejaculate on that poor woman's face or breasts, what do you reckon?"

Harry wants to punch him, and Harry wants to smile, and Harry doesn't know what he wants, anymore.

******

A few days pass.

They dance around the flat and around each other awkwardly, avoiding touchy subjects, remaining bright and cheerful. Malfoy sets to understanding Muggle things with a surprising amount of passion, and once Harry has to tackle him to stop him from straight up shoving a fork in an electric outlet, but other than that, his experiments remain on the safe side of things. He asks for Harry's permission to take apart the toaster, and Harry secretly watches him with worry, waiting for the moment he has to save him from the inevitable electrocution, but it doesn't come.

They take turns cooking, and though Malfoy, unsurprisingly, sucks at it even after all the eagerness he approaches it with, and Harry is an incredibly messy chef, and Malfoy actually starts cleaning up after him, tutting, they make things work, in a way.

And then Malfoy wakes up screaming.

Harry envies him. He welcomes most mornings covered in a light sheen of sweat, tired, but too afraid to go to sleep. He's too scared to face his nightmares.

He's still wide awake when he hears the shouting, and doesn't even remember how he gets to the living room, only that he's suddenly there, breathless and dizzy, scrambling in the dark, orientating himself towards the sound of Malfoy's frantic breathing.

He reaches a tentative hand towards the other boy, and Malfoy whimpers away, clutching his pillow tightly before him, the knuckles of his hands bone-white.

"It's alright", Harry whispers after a second, reaching out further. Malfoy meets his eyes, and Harry feels like he's just travelled back through time; this Malfoy looks so much younger, younger than Harry's ever seen him. His eyes are wide, and his lower lip is trembling violently, as they stare at each other.

"I'm sorry", Malfoy says, and Harry sets his jaw, angry that Malfoy thinks he should be apologizing. "I just... had some bad dreams. I - they were _really_ bad."

"I guessed as much", Harry mutters, taking out his wand. He checks if the screaming has caused any attention, and is satisfied to find the area, as per usual, magic-less.

Malfoy's cheeks are bright red.

"Shit", he mumbles. "I need to learn how to control myself."

"Nah, it's okay", Harry returns, perching carefully on the edge of the couch. "What were you dreaming about?"

Malfoy huffs, giving him a defiant look. But after a moment, his shoulders slump, and he looks down.

"People I once knew. Dead people."

"Oh", Harry says, surprised. He wonders how many of Malfoy's friends died during this past year.

"It wasn't that awful", Malfoy says distantly. "It's just, most nights I don't wake up screaming."

Harry stretches his lips into a tight smile, and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder.

He wonders what he should do to soften this frightened boy in front of him, finding he can barely connect the snarky, arrogant, sarcastic Malfoy with this wide eyed, war-broken person.

"Come on, let's go to bed", he says.

He takes Malfoy's hand gently, and the other boy just stares at him. Harry gives his hand a light tug.

"Come on", he repeats, and drags them both to the bedroom. "That couch is way too uncomfortable."

"I don't think the bed's-", Malfoy starts insecurely, but Harry waves him away.

"I'm sure we'll manage", he says, and nudges him towards the mattress, before flopping back down himself.

"Are you sure this is okay?", Malfoy asks, and Harry just grunts and pulls him down.

The bed really is too small for the both of them, and it takes a lot of adjusting and accidental eye-poking before reaching some level of comfort, and they end up with their knees knocking together, but Harry is content anyway. There is a long silence between them, before Malfoy mutters: "Thanks."

Harry falls asleep quickly after that, with the comforting feeling of Malfoy's body close to his and Malfoy's slow breathing in his ear.

******

In the days to follow, they become slightly closer to each other, which is something that's not horribly hard to do, considering they start sleeping together every night. If anyone had ever told Harry a few years ago he was going to become closely acquainted with Draco Malfoy's sleeping habits, he would... he'd... well, either laugh or punch them in the face.

And, now, he'd probably just blush. A really, really terrible amount.

Because now, he knows how Draco's fingers clench into tight fists in his sleep, gripping whatever's the closest. In this case, it's Harry. Many nights he woke up to find himself in the firm hold of Malfoy's  surprisingly strong hands, and had to softly disentangle himself from his death grip.

Sometimes Malfoy flinches and shakes in his sleep, muttering to himself wildly, and Harry has to press a hesitant hand to his side, until he calms down and sinks his head in the crook of Harry's shoulder. That happened more than a few times, too. Harry finds it hard to mind, with the soft noises Malfoy makes then, his lips hot against Harry's skin. He never tells him about their late-night, half conscious interactions, supposing Malfoy would be terribly embarrassed.

He certainly knows he is, to some point, at least.

A small part of him finds it annoyingly, alarmingly pleasant, the entire ordeal, but he resolves not to think about it too much.

******

On their tenth night, Malfoy stays up for longer than usual, pacing around the living room nervously, and he climbs in the bed just around three am, careful not to wake Harry, which is an effort wasted, considering Harry discovered he couldn't fall asleep anymore without Malfoy there laying next to him.

"Good", Harry mutters, shuffling closer to the other boy instinctively, until their knees knock together. His eyelids keep dropping shut. "I thought something was wrong."

Malfoy lies stiffly next to him, staring at the ceiling.

"Still wanna hear about the bruise?", he asks softly after a quiet minute. Harry's eyes snap open, suddenly alert.

The bruise is now a faded blue, almost completely gone, but still sensitive to touch, as Harry found out

last night, when he rolled over in his sleep and accidentally squished Malfoy's face.

"Only if you want to talk about it", he says quietly. He found out by now that there were many topics Malfoy would rather avoid, and that pushing him for answers wasn't the best idea.

"Always so prim and proper, Harry", Malfoy says with a smile, and Harry's stomach twists at the odd sound of his name, coming from Malfoy's mouth. Malfoy doesn't even notice, instead continues talking as if he hasn't just called Harry by his first name for the first time since they met, seven years ago.

"I think I liked you better when you were punching me in the face. Oh, well. Want to guess who banged me up this hard?"

Harry doesn't say anything, just watches Malfoy's pointy profile as the other boy licks his lips absently.

"It was my father. _Shocking_ , I know. But not very shocking in the least, I think you'd agree. It happened right after the final battle, when I confessed to him I'd been a spy for the Order all along, and I wanted to take him and Mother to a safe house. He hit me right in the face with his cane. Knocked me down on the ground. I was surprised, to say the least. Didn't think he had it in him, the old goat. And after, he didn't even say anything. Just grabbed her by the arm and left. Left me there, laying in the dirt."

Malfoy's face twists, changing many expressions.

"Today was her birthday, and I-", he swallows and blinks. Harry feels like every muscle in his body is about to snap, even his skin stretched tight with anticipation.

"I just wanted to wish her a happy birthday", Malfoy grits out. "And I couldn't even do that, cause I'm stuck in this - fucking - dump!"

The last sentence echoes loudly in the quiet room, hurt and bitter, and Malfoy closes his eyes, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths.

"You didn't do it for you", Harry says slowly, keeping his own voice calm. "You did it for them."

"I did it for _her_ ", Malfoy says, every word ringing angrily in its place, his eyes still tightly shut. "Not for him. She never wanted to take part in this. She was innocent. She just married the wrong man, that's all. And even _that_ wasn't her decision, because it was an arranged marriage, I know. I just... I hope she's okay."

"When all of this is over, you can go search for her", Harry says earnestly. "Look, I'll help."

Malfoy huffs a humourless laugh.

"Thanks, Potter, but I know where she is. She's with _him_. That's where her 'place' is. And I don't know... I've tried so many times... I just don't know what to say to her, anymore."

"Well, I can't help you in that aspect, can I", says Harry, in a horrible attempt to lighten the mood. "I don't have parents, aha, ahaha, ha."

Malfoy groans.

"Don't joke about that, Potter. It doesn't suit you."

"Yeah", Harry says quietly. "It doesn't."

"Am I to be sorry for that as well?", Malfoy says sharply, before realizing what he's doing.

"Sorry", he adds, sounding sheepish.

"No, come on, before we start wallowing in self-pity", Harry starts determinedly. "I can't help my parents are dead. It took me a long time to learn that. You can't help your father is an asshole."

He waits for a moment to see if Malfoy'll contradict him, but the other boy says nothing, turning on his side to look at him with serious eyes.

"We'll just have... deal with it, and do what we can to move on", Harry finishes firmly.

"Wow, Potter", Malfoy mumbles in his ear, "when did you get so... sage-like?"

Harry really doesn't feel all that wise at the moment, not with the way Malfoy's pointy chest presses against his side, and Malfoy's fingers lightly touching his wrist. His brain has pretty much stopped working.

"This is the most ridiculous thing", Malfoy murmurs sleepily. "Me, _confiding_ to you. Sharing secrets. We're one braid away from this becoming an actual sleepover, Potter."

He runs one hand through Harry's curls, snickering, and Harry smiles and kicks him in the shin, just for good measure.

They fall asleep.

*******

"Potter?"

Harry ignores him.

"Potter?"

Harry ignores him.

" _Potter?"_

Harry's jaw sets stubbornly. He ignores him.

 _"_ Potter, are you _done_?"

Harry takes one long, deep breath.

"Pott-"

"Yes, yes, for fuck's sake, yes!", Harry groans finally towards the bathroom door, and nudges it open with his foot, before returning his attention towards the mirror and shaving one long streak along his cheek. Malfoy peers at him carefully.

"Well, obviously you are _not_ done-"

"Sure am", Harry mumbles, and raises his chin slightly to shave his neck.

 Malfoy watches him with wide eyes.

"You're going to hurt yourself", he says.

Harry ignores him, humming absently to himself, and he sticks out his tongue at his reflection as he shaves a particularly delicate line along his throat. He's in a weirdly good mood this morning, and he refuses to connect it with the fact that, just half an hour ago, he woke up half buried beneath Malfoy, with his soft blond hair ticking Harry's chin, and one arm heavily draped across Harry's stomach. It was funny, is all.

"Well, can I take a shower now, or can't I?", Malfoy says impatiently, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Yeah, just, uh, give me a minute", Harry says, and turns his head sideways, searching for missed spots.

"Oh, for fuck's sake", Malfoy sighs dramatically, and steps into the already crowded bathroom. "If you don't mind..."

He turns his back to Harry, and shrugs out of his t-shirt easily, revealing his pale, narrow back. Harry doesn't mean to exactly be watching him, but he takes a moment to look at the elegant lines of his body. Malfoy is skinny, but not too much, enough for his spine to crack through skin at some places, a long straight line curving slightly towards the small of his back, and enough for his shoulder blades to stand out sharply. Malfoy throws his used shirt in the basket, in one smooth motion, and Harry can see all the muscles in his arm uncurling and stretching along with the movement, and then he bends slightly forwards, the contour of his spine becoming more prominent, and in the terrible, sudden silence in the bathroom, Harry can hear his jeans being unzipped-

"Ow!", he yelps suddenly, and Malfoy turns around in an instant.

"What's happened?", he asks, coming closer to Harry, and Harry stares at himself in the mirror, and the deep cut on his jaw, with dark, thick blood blossoming all around it.

"Fuck", he says quietly, and flinches away when Malfoy touches the cut tentatively. "Don't!"

Malfoy backs away, lifting both of his arms in the air defensively, and Harry's eyes automatically sweep his body, from the equally sharp collarbone, over the lean stomach, to a trail of soft blond hair disappearing in the band of his trousers...

"I've got to", he says, forcing himself to look back up, "I'll, um - clean myself back in the kitchen - it's, uh, all yours - the bathroom - bye -"

He flees.

*******

He's staring at the wall when Malfoy re-emerges, spreading his stupid shampoo scent all over.

"Hey, did you fix yourself up?", he says carefully, and Harry turns to him, craning his neck so Malfoy can see the thin red line swelling along his skin. Malfoy sucks some air through his teeth.

"Wow", he offers. "Well, you can just add it to the war wounds. All the ladies back home will swoon."

He grins and throws himself on the cushions next to Harry, adjusting until his head is half in Harry's lap.

"But you _should_ have been more careful, you know", he says sagely, waggling a finger up at him, and Harry has half a mind to push him off the couch, except the weight comforts him for some strange reason, and Malfoy's smile is positively infectious.

"Yeah, well", he says, "at least I do have to shave myself. None of this kid's fluff you call a beard."

"Oh, really, you went there", Malfoy says bitterly. The closest he got to a beard while in the flat was a light, soft fuzz on the seventh day.

"Going after my amount of body hair and associating it with my masculinity. Tsk, tsk, tsk, Potter. I expected more of you. And", his voice drops a little, until it's a low rumble Harry can feel buzzing through his own skin, "I can assure you I'm all man... where it counts."

"Oh, shut up", Harry says, and throws his head backwards in exasperation, trying to suppress a smile. Malfoy smirks, and stretches languidly across the couch, his shoulder blades digging in Harry's thighs.

"What I said last night", he starts slowly, glancing at Harry's face, "about this place being a dump and all... I mean, it still is, but, you know, it's kind of alright. One could even call it enjoyable. There's a lot of far worse roommates than you, Potter, I'm sure of it."

Harry hums in agreement, savouring Malfoy's odd compliment.

"Thanks, Draco", he says gently, and tries to ignore the look the other boy gives him, surprised but pleased.

They spend the rest of the afternoon like that, watching old Muggle movies, Malfoy talking the whole time and asking too many questions, and Harry trying his best to explain things to him properly.

*******

It's a warm, bright morning , and Draco thinks that last night he slept well for the first time in months, even if that meant he needed to curl around Potter like he was some enormous, short-sighted teddy bear.

He also managed to finally turn on the television in one try, hitting the right button in one, and to find the cooking channel he liked. And now he's baking a cake, because he felt like it, and watched that lady explain it all to him last night, and _damn_ , does life feel good right now.

When Potter emerges from the bedroom, looking like he just woke up, messy haired and stretching languidly, Draco looks at him proudly, gesturing to the beginnings of a cake, red batter he's just been mixing up in the bowl.

"Cooking?", Potter says with surprise, and his voice is still rough with sleep, and Draco finds he likes it.

"Baking, in fact", he says haughtily, and Potter grins. It is not a grin Draco particularly trusts.

"What are you doing?", he says warily, eyeing the other boy as he approaches the counter nonchalantly.

Potter just wordlessly dips his index finger in the dough, and inspects it with interest.

"Red", is all he says, and Draco watches as he puts the finger in his mouth and sucks it absently, licking off the batter. "An unusual colour for you to use."

"Yes, well, it was the only one we had", Draco says faintly, still focused on the workings of Potter's cheek muscles, hollowed with suction. "I do hope your hands are clean."

Potter takes the finger out of his mouth. His lips are slightly wet with saliva now, and so red with scarlet food paint it looks like they're almost bruised, and it's very distracting.

"Got yourself all prepped up, I see", Potter says, and Draco glances down at his apron, which he dug out from one of the kitchen drawers and found it fit him rather nicely, freshly washed and pressed and blindingly white. He thought it looked very professional and efficient, anyway.

When Draco looks up, Potter is smiling in an unfamiliar way, eyes still on Draco's cooking garb. It's none of the smiles Draco recognizes in Potter: the shy ones whenever one of his friends told him something unnecessarily nice, or the grateful ones whenever his professors lavishly complimented him.

This smile is almost wolfish in all its crookedness.

"Would be a shame if anything... would happen to it", Potter says, dipping another hand in the bowl of dough and grabbing a handful. And then there's red cake batter all over Draco's starching white apron, and smudging his cheekbones, and Potter's sticky fingers in his hair, and Draco Malfoy _is_ actually going to kill Harry Potter this time.

He lets out a cry of dismay, and jumps on the other boy, throwing them both on the floor, except Potter is surprisingly strong beneath that wiry facade of his - fucking Oliver Wood and his lunatic amounts of quidditch practices - so Potter ends up flipping him over with as much ease as if he's fighting a child, and then he's sitting on top of him, laughing with his whole body so even Draco can feel the vibrations humming through his own ribs, and he gives up, letting his head fall on the floor with a defeated _thunk_.

"Quitting already?", Potter asks, and Draco can hear the clear amusement in his voice, which makes his blood boil again. He grits his teeth, and struggles to sit up, but Potter just pins his wrists down easily, shifting on top of him to settle better, his hips holding Draco in place.

He leans down, closer, until his wild hair is tickling Draco's forehead, and whispers: "Why, I thought you'd at least put up a decent fight."

"You caught me off guard", Draco mutters, determined not to let on how utterly embarrassed he is. He needs to work on his combat skills, that much is obvious.

Potter hums in his ear, low and satisfied, and now there's something else Draco feels, something alarming, in the very depths of his stomach, and he pushes Potter off him, quickly standing up.

He runs his fingers through his hair, finding it's already ruined from the little wrestle match, and Potter grins at him from the floor, clearly missing Draco's sudden panic attack.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have things to bake, so I cannot indulge in any more infantile displays of physical dominance", Draco says icily, trying to keep his facade going, and Potter gets up as well, his smile wickedly innocent.

"I'll be in the bedroom if you need me", he says easily, certainly not aware of the effect those exact words are causing, and walks away.

Left alone in the empty kitchen, Draco leans heavily against the fridge, taking deep breaths.

 _No. This is not happening_.

*******

For the rest of the day, Malfoy seems on edge for some reason, and Harry finds it makes him feel off, as well. When in a good mood, Malfoy was diamond-bright and brutally sarcastic, with the amount of wits enough to match Hermione's own and an all too charming smile.

Harry found that he liked him, that way. He found he liked him, in a lot of ways.

But he can't think about it. Not yet.

He sticks his head cautiously through the bedroom door, and Malfoy whips around to stare at him.

"That cake sure smells nice, honey", Harry offers as a way of apologizing, and Malfoy sighs slowly, bracing against the counter with his hands.

Harry can't help but notice how good he looks, his hair tousled and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He pushes the thought away firmly.

"Are you going to try and attack me again? I'm warning you, I just washed my hair."

Harry knows. He can sense the vanilla all the way up to the other side of the room.

"I'm just here for the cake", he says with a light smile.

"Cruel, Potter, using me like that", Malfoy returns, pouting playfully, and Harry knows he is cracking him. It's strange, how quickly he got the hang of Malfoy's bad moods, and learned how to turn them around.

"Oh, you _like_ it", he says huskily. "You want me to want your cake, you... hussy."

"How dare you, I am a gentleman", Malfoy says, turning to take out the baking tray from the oven, and Harry approaches the kitchen counter in two quick steps, leaning on it with his elbows. He looks at the slightly flushed back of Malfoy's neck, and notes how the damp ends of his hair curl slightly.

The sweet, overwhelming smell of Malfoy's shampoo makes his brain short-circuit for a moment, and then Malfoy resurfaces victoriously, pushing the cake on the counter between them. There is still - ridiculously - some red batter on his cheek, and Harry, without thinking, reaches out and brushes it off gently, swiping it with his thumb.

They both freeze at the contact.

Malfoy's eyes drop to Harry's lips, and Harry feels the heat of the gaze run all the way down through his spine like electricity. He's just about to do something incredibly impulsive. And stupid.

Harry spent most of his life acting out on impulses; his experiences told him that it was not the smartest thing to do. He's torn somewhere between doing what he wants and subduing himself, for one of the rare moments in his life. But before he can decide on what he's going to do, Malfoy swallows audibly, and leans away. Harry hasn't even realized how close they've become.

"Well, a cup of tea would be perfect just about now, wouldn't it", Malfoy says, and disappears from the room.

Harry makes the tea, and pretends his hands aren't shaking all the way through.

******

They spend most of their days bickering amiably, sometimes so much they remind Harry of Ron and Hermione; a thought he tries to block the same instant it appears.

Harry isn't exactly sure when they passed from Malfoy and Potter to Draco and Harry; it started out as a joke, the two of them testing each other's names; at first it sounded weird, sitting on Harry's tongue, but he got used to it very soon; it slipped into a habit quickly, and he likes what it sometimes does to Malfoy's face, calling him by his first name unexpectedly.

Draco still doesn't tend to call him Harry very properly; he says his name like it's a bad cough, like something stuck in his throat; he often just mutters it, or uncharacteristically blushes if it slips from his lips when he doesn't mean it to; Harry is okay with it anyway. He realizes it might be weird for him, too.

******

Draco looks like he's about to choke laughing, his face bright red, eyes watering slightly. Harry watches him fondly, wondering whether he's about to faint.

"I'd _never_ ", Draco breathes out, letting his head fall off the couch, stretching his neck. Harry instinctively grabs him by the ankles to stop him from dropping on the floor completely.

"Fuck, that's _hilarious_ \- can you imagine - oh, my _lungs_ -"

"I don't think it was that funny", Harry says mildly, turning the volume down. They've been watching some comedy show or the other, stretched over the shabby sofa, enjoying the warm afternoon.

"Well, you're a wet blanket through and through, aren't you", Draco mutters, his head upside down, and Harry just pulls his feet firmly in his lap, enjoying the annoyed groan he draws from the blond boy.

"For fuck's sake, you're strong", Draco says, letting himself be pulled. "The first thing I'm doing when I get back to the real world is getting myself some muscle potions, so I could beat your arse up. Merlin, that'd be satisfying."

"Really?", Harry says through a smile. "That's the first thing you're doing? Is there even such a thing as muscle potion?"

"I'll invent it, then", Draco returns with a flippant shake of his wrist. "No, but the first thing I'll _probably_ do is... hell, I don't know. Go to the Manor. Have a long talk with my parents. A longer one with just my father, I guess."

"Yeah?", Harry says, curious, and Draco nods, his hair bobbing ridiculously up and down.

"I've been thinking about it a lot, and I want to take over the household. Help people rebuild, after everything. If there's one thing that's certain about the Malfoys...", he sighs, "it's that we have fucking enormous amounts of money."

"What makes you think he'll allow you to take over?", Harry asks tentatively. His chest swells at the thought of Draco Malfoy, helping the victims of war, repaying what is due, using his old family money to right what was wrong.

Draco shrugs.

"Absolutely nothing. I know he'll want to preserve the family name, though, keep us on the good side of things. Always about the image we show to the world, my father. I think he'd quite like holding charity balls, or whatever."

"You'd look good in dress robes", Harry says softly, and it's in that moment he realizes he's absently stroking Draco's ankle. He stops abruptly.

"You _know_ I would", Draco returns with dark amusement. He wiggles his feet.

One of his heels lightly brushes Harry's crotch.

 _This is not the time_ , Harry thinks as he slowly crosses his legs.

"I recall you didn't look half as bad in fourth year, as well", Draco offers.

"Is that a compliment?", Harry says, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"It might be", Draco returns.

"So, noticed my dress robes, did you?", Harry says, because during the past two weeks he realized he really, _really_ liked teasing Draco.

The other boy snorts.

"Oh, come _on_ , you were one of the champions, the whole school had to watch you ceremoniously 'open' the Yule Ball. And don't get me wrong, Potter, I like you, but that was some _atrocious_ dancing. Honestly, they should've dressed up a Blast-Ended Skrewt and have him slug around the floor for five minutes in your stead, and he'd still be more elegant than you were."

"Oh, that's harsh", Harry groans, and ignores the pleasant flip in his stomach at the 'I like you'.

"And I guess you're an absolute dream on the dance floor?"

"I'm an absolute dream at _all_ times", Draco says formally. "And on the dance floor especially. Maybe I'll teach you a few steps, one day."

"Maybe you will", Harry agrees.

He doesn't miss Draco's small smile.

******

There's the faintest clicking sound echoing through the flat, sharp and punctual, almost a beat. It shakes Harry out of his sleep, and he stares at the ceiling for a moment, weighing out the possible sources in his head. Next to him, Draco looks sound asleep, his chest rising and falling calmly with his every breath. Harry glances at him carefully, noting how his face looks vulnerable in his sleep, losing all the careless  indifference he usually wore.

His mouth is slightly parted, instead twisted in the familiar sarcastic smirk, and his eyelids flutter gently, the lashes brushing the pillowcase, his soft, light hair shining in the moonlight.

Harry bites his lip. He could watch him for a while, enjoying the innocent expression he could never even glimpse when Draco was actually awake.

The clicking continues stubbornly, now louder than before, and Harry turns to get up from the bed and check it, when one of Draco's hands shoots up and drops over his waist.

"Dunt", comes a low grunt from the fair-haired boy, his face buried in his pillow. "Stay."

It's both a command and a plea, firm and soft all at once, and Harry feels something tugging at his chest, a new warmth spreading through it as he regards the boy in front of him.

"I have to", he answers quietly, extracting himself from the warm bed, and he pads through the dark room to the living room, where an owl is determinedly pecking on the window. When he starts to open it, she gives him a disdainful glance, and he can almost hear her say 'really, it took you _that long_?', before she dutifully stretches a leg and presents a letter for him to untie, hoots quietly (and still so scornfully), and flies away.

He watches her go until she is nothing more than a grey-brown, elegant shadow in the night sky.

"What's that?", Draco says suddenly, peering over his shoulder. His breath is hot on Harry's neck, and Harry moves away, turns on the light and squints at the words.

"It's from Hermione", he says. "What's she - this isn't like her, she knows sending me this was incredibly dangerous-"

"She just misses you", Draco says in a strange tone of voice, and snatches the letter from Harry's hands, opening it brusquely.  

"Hey", Harry says, but half-heartedly, instead leaning against the wall and letting Draco read it out to him.

"Dear Harry, yadda, yadda, yadda... have you killed Malfoy yet... funny girl, this Granger. Charlie Weasley got his left shoulder almost burned off by a dragon, but they were able to save it... the Order made lots of progress on both your and Malfoy's part, you'll be able to return to your lives soon enough... that's good, I should think. Can't wait to see you again... we all miss you terribly, yadda, yadda... and... and Ginny especially."

The last sentence seems to stick in Draco's throat on its way out; he mutters the last few words, rushes and stumbles over them with an unusual lack of enunciation, but Harry is too caught up to notice, thinking of Ron and Hermione and all the Weasleys, and how terribly he misses them, too.

"Did you hear that, Potter?", Draco says brightly, his crisp, sharp tone back in place. "And your little girlfriend, too. How neat, this life you'll be getting back to."

"She's not my girlfriend", Harry says absently. "We broke up... some time ago."

"Well, I imagine she wants to get back together", Draco says, waving the letter around meaningfully. "How about that."

"Yeah", Harry says faintly. He hasn't thought of Ginny, not once since he's been here; there were always other things, other people; and, above all, Draco Malfoy.

"Well, I guess I'll have to disappoint her then."

Draco's grey eyes widen with surprise, but there is also a tug at his lower lip, the barest hint of a satisfied smile.

"What now? Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the hero of the modern wizarding age, does not get the girl after all?"

"I suppose he doesn't", Harry replies, meeting Draco's eyes.

Draco looks away, and Harry wonders if he's imagining the sudden uncertainty that appears on his face, if only for a moment.

"Well, I guess I'll just go back to bed, then", Malfoy says, too loudly, too cheerfully, already turning away, when Harry grabs his wrist.

Draco's eyes are wide with shock when he looks back, and Harry licks his lips absently before saying:

"Look. I guess all of this _will_ be over soon, and I just want to say... uh..."

"Yes?", Draco prompts him, his face sharp and intent.

Harry's mouth is disturbingly dry and his mind suddenly empty, as he finds himself just staring back at Draco, who looks expectant and nervous.

"I... never mind", he concedes finally, letting him go.

"Alright", Draco returns, his voice quivering.

When they climb back into the old, narrow bed together, neither of them says a word, instead slipping closer to each other until Harry's knee is pressed against Draco's, their elbows knocking together, and their noses almost touch, the strange, new intimacy buried and hidden in the dark of the night.

******

It comes two days after that, a serious, business-like owl, whose determined look reminds Harry vaguely of Professor McGonagall. It chirps twice, sparing them both a look, and flies away quickly.

Harry opens the letter, and a cold weight sets in his stomach.

"We're free to go", he says, and Draco looks up sharply from the pieces of toaster he'd been examining closely. They look at each other for a long moment. Harry watches Draco's apple bob up and down wildly.

"Right", Malfoy says. "Right. Well."

"Professor McGonagall's thanking us for our patience, says we'll be in contact. Apparently, we're getting medals."

Draco snorts, and Harry continues:

"She also says the worst of the Death Eaters were caught. Greyback, Yaxley, Dolohov, the like."

"Good", Draco says, his lips a very thin line. Harry can't stop looking at him.

"So we can go", he repeats, and comes closer. Draco just watches him, his eyes getting wider by the second. Harry slips between him and the kitchen counter, and pushes his hands insecurely in his pockets.

"This was a surprisingly not bad experience", he says, and Draco huffs a small smile, and looks away.

"I'm inclined to agree. I learned how to bake, after all."

"A useful skill", Harry says, then takes a deep breath.

"Don't", Draco says, his voice thin.

"But I will", Harry perseveres. There is a low, urgent feeling in his stomach, warning him that if he doesn't do something now, he'll be missing something very important.

And Draco is just standing there, his eyes larger than the moon as he stares back at Harry.

And if there's one thing Harry is, it's brave.

He takes a step forward, and Draco doesn't back away, just stands there stiffly, and Harry leans forward slightly, and smiles.

"Potter, don't be ridiculous, you're-", Draco starts sharply, but Harry can hear the slight trace of insecurity beneath it.

"You sure about that?", he mutters, hooking two fingers in the waistband of Draco's jeans and pulling him closer, so close their noses almost touch. Draco's eyes are a clear, bright grey, and startled.

They look at each other for a moment, and then Harry slips his hand beneath Draco's shirt, and _yes_ and _why haven't we done this sooner_ and Draco's body is thin, but hard, the muscles of his stomach rigid and trembling as Harry trails his fingers across them.

"Is this, is this okay?", Harry asks, because Draco hasn't said a word yet, only keeps taking deep breaths, and Draco leans into him with his whole body, until he's pushing him against the counter, every part of them touching: foreheads pressed gently against each other, bony hips meeting bony hips, and knees knocking together. Harry realizes his legs are shaking, and Draco steadies him slowly, bracing against the counter behind Harry with his both hands. He nudges Harry with his forehead.

"You stupid git", he mutters, and Harry laughs breathlessly, until he turns his head and meets Draco's eyes again.

They both go for it at the same time, and their mouth meet in a not so gentle crash of teeth, and Draco mutters 'fuck', and Harry giggles again, and then he moves a little - just a little - enough for the angle to be right, and now they're kissing, and Draco is shaking all over, and Harry wonders if he should be the one steadying him, so he curves an arm around the small of Draco's narrow back, and brings him closer still.

Draco's tongue slips into his mouth, and Harry meets him halfway, too eager and too happy and too much of everything, and Draco makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and right now Harry just wants to throw him over the counter and eat him whole.

Their hips shift and meet again, more closely now, and Draco grinds down so hard Harry sees stars, and he lets one of his hands slide down to palm Draco's ass, and there is a surprised breath in their kiss, and Harry smirks just because he can.

Draco bites his lip, and then he bites his neck, and then he bites his shoulder, one hand working on removing his t-shirt, and Harry helps him, struggling out of it, clumsy with want.

Draco slides one of his hands around Harry's neck, and brings their mouths together again, and then his other hand is sliding down Harry's torso, so slowly, but Harry knows, just knows where it'll end, and Draco presses a quivering palm to Harry's erection, and Harry gasps into his mouth. How is he so hard already? How is this even happening?

"Harry, I-", Draco starts, and his voice is low and just a little bit broken, and _now_ Harry's name does sound right, slipping from his tongue; it's a husky breath, a deep sigh, all the harshness and the softness of it rolled into one; Harry has to lean in and kiss him again, the mouth that gives his name such an unusually sweet sound.

"Let's not talk just yet", he says. "Just for a moment more."

Draco smiles, nodding, and slips his fingers into Harry's hair.

They'll figure this out, eventually.


End file.
